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Äŧül Jun 24
On every terrorist incident,
Leave they not a stone unturned,
And scream it without fail.

Why do they think of 7th heaven,
Heaven after killing so many,
Of the innocent people?

Undertakers of Ola they are,
******* commit dastardly acts,
Ever will they be able to gaze,
Right into their own eyes in a mirror?
Ola Who Uber is their warcry

Secondary acrostic.

My HP Poem #1747
©Atul Kaushal
Sad Boy Jul 2018
Weather’s colder than I thought
Where is my Über?
Malignant gangrenous political cancer
     corrupts, festers, and poisons United States,
     thus opposition cannot wait,
especially since Gospel in accordance

     with feeble minded Donald Trump
     implemented wrought **** trait,
particularly obliteration, sans progressive
     human rights legislation

     more or less pronounced positive
     in every L ionized Nittany or cotton bowl state
and ratiocination inherent within
     mine Democrat oriented mind doth rate

this forty fifth president (defect)
     with sawdust packing
     his noodle oven egotistical pate
trophy wife (spouse number three),

     a Slovenia mate
donning "I don't care anymore"
     t-shirt rousing media firestorm of late
essentially silently corroborating,

     fostering, and illuminating hate
mutely bolstering the Trump anthem,
     viz make America great
again, which pathless,

     pithless, and pointless aim
     roars like an earsplitting runaway freight
     train oblivious of wailing soul asylum,
     that no era meets said criteria

     backtracking time machine before
     rightful indigenous occupants of this land
     got decimated as one after another
     exploiter did inundate

(comprising a multitude
     of indigenous variety of village people
indignantly subjected to Genocide,
     when first "discoverer"

     of new land didst promulgate
activation wrought deliberate sealed fate
vis a vis capitulation, demolition,
     and extirpation, cuz

     a scathing rebuke aye attest,
     those murderers didst equate
worthlessness of
     so called "Indians" on 1492 date,

and still remnants of storied tribes,
     now attempt to create
historical documentation operate
ting with limited resources to adjudicate.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Food methinks doth buzzfeed drumbeat agog
at pyrotechnics July 4th, 2018 shared as blog
posts, a falsehood prevails which dog
gone “FAKE” brewed watered down grog
posits that the majority of Colonialists stay hog

tied to strict task masters, and mainly the scant
upperclass experienced autonomy,
     no matter the under class didst futilely rant
and rave with the occasional
     uprisings over time did grant
minimal appeasement to stifle violent kant!
Sarah Robinson May 2018
My favorite thing about this
Viral sensation
Has to be the complete lack
Of continuity
Throughout countries, states
Welcome to my little slice of
As I am fortunate enough
To get to share my Uber with
Some random stranger at
Approximately 11:47 pm
Is a shady city
Crawling with shady people
Mind you
I am just a 20 year old female
Very protective of my body
But wait, there’s more
For just half the unreasonable price of a shared ride
I can get an express car pool in which
I get to walk for 5 whole minutes
To the Denny’s parking lot
In the dead of night
Yay me.
The ride to my house, a normal
20 minute drive
Turns to 37 as we take a random exit
To pick up a random stranger
Who does not show up
But that’s fine
As it is
We renter the same highway 10 minutes later
In a futile attempt
To get me
Home before
12:30 am
That did not happen
Did you know that 24 hour Subways exist?
Me neither
It's her 21st Birthday and she’s out with her "friends"
So the first shot was on the house tonight
She believes she’s tipsy but that's not what I heard when she called me that night
She is going to die on her way home tonight
Not even an Uber would have saved her life
From a drunk driver going down the wrong side
and only one witness makes it out alive
that was me, on the phone
I cried
How could something so cliché
end a life
Prabhu Iyer Mar 2015
The door out back from a cosy hamlet
is too a thorny one that is not often tread

Just when all seems certain and settled
life comes knocking and seething.

And you go walking the starry path,
the wayward path, the meandering path
to nine yards of nowhereness.

Questions, some are never settled. Invitations
some are never forever. Rhythms are not
made to last, just like the seasons. Winters
are the longest, deepest and darkest
that etch their cold onto pestles of the heart
that want to pound down memories a tonic.

Emerge, shadowy oars, from mists unraveling
by the shorey oceans lining the soul,

Slow here are the sailboats of hope
that we unfurl in sodden winds
and keep rowing on, on to the shoreless zons.

when the cold gets to the bones, I make a bonfire
of all my pasts, longings and belongings,

oh the late gull that shrieks past the silences.

All, but love. That, I cannot burn,
for that I am, I loved, and will love,
change forms, change norms, but that I will.
Next up in the #Hermit series, dreamy surreal verse, exploring the fragility of hope and the endurance of love.

Martin Narrod Apr 2014
Your colors are so heavy, how dare I, I cannot sleep. Years inundated under, through skin coils, marigold fields. Yellow crocuses, orange California poppies. Moors of cattle ranchers, yokes of oxen. Plasticine uber-confidence, silky white-skinned testubular thrice people harmonies. Blisses of contagion, contagious bliss. Wrists and incisors, tying down in a bedroom, waking up to live harps and choruses. You dance like you're so alive, but I'm so alive I can't dance. Or breathe. Or knead my fists of earthen wears, or sell my soul completely. I drove off a cliff last night, but the four foot fall ended neatly. The plateau authors my chance to sew my bright, beyond- my fortunes. But the hour before I fall asleep, seems to be the greatest torture.

— The End —